Tyred and Emotional - Frank McNally on the ups and downs of driving in Sicily

Driving in Sicily is not for the faint-hearted or underinsured. Hence one of the many revelations of a recent trip there: that when the Palermo rental company gave me a smaller car than expected, they were doing me a favour.

Faced with some of the back streets and alleys the GPS later directed me down, I found myself asking the navigator: “Are you serious?” In a few cases, they were passable only by tucking in both wing mirrors and squirming.

Then there were the lane markings, or lack of them. Even when these are visible, which is rare, locals regard them as an unwarranted restriction on personal expression. They reject the binary assumptions of dual carriageways, while on three-lane routes, fender fluidity allows for up to five distinct orientations.

The back roads of central Sicily are another challenge altogether. One day we drove to Corleone, the mountain town made infamous by the Godfather films. The real place does not feature in those: it was too modern and unpicturesque. But the approach roads make up for that.

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Once you leave the motorway, the route grows progressively worse, with bad bends, potholes, and bits where the surface inspires thoughts of religion (“Oh Jesus!”).

It was a bit like 1980s Cavan, except the hills were higher and browner and the road was lined with cactus plants. On one blind bend, I had to swerve to avoid a sheep.

Corleone is a dark, sombre town. When we arrived in mid-afternoon, it was mostly closed, for the siesta. The only sign of life was a wedding, which inspired my sons to compete in Marlon Brando cat-stroking impressions (they know the scene as a meme, even though they’ve never seen the actual movies).

But the Mafia is no joke here. Unlike the gift shops of Palermo, Corleone does not trade on its infamy. There were no other visible tourists in town and little to do. The Museo Antimafia, which documents the gloomy reality in such exhibits as the “Room of Pain”, was already closed for the day.

The streets were coming alive only as we left, in good time to avoid having to face the terrible road back in darkness. But the sun was low as I drove out of town, dangerously relaxed. Then – Bang! Bang! – the car was forced to a halt by something unseen.

This tuned out to be a loose kerbstone, jutting out from a footpath, which had wiped out both right-side tyres. But no sooner had I placed the emergency triangle on the road behind, and before there was time to survey the disaster, another had pulled up and the driver ordered me in Italian to get in.

Yes, a Sicilian stranger had made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Waving goodbye to my children, I was driven away. But then we met a van coming in the opposite direction, which my man waved down. And after a short conversation I couldn’t understand, I was ordered into that instead.

The new driver turned out to be from the local tyre fitters. He assessed the damage to the car, noted sadly that the rental company had not supplied a spare, and whipped the two kerb-ruined wheels off before bringing me to his workshop.

There, a cat sat imperiously on a rubber throne. I stroked it, of course, but without any of Don Corleone’s self-assurance. The cat accepted my nervous tribute without gratitude, as I awaited the inevitable shock of what my error would cost.

The whole operation unfolded so slickly I began to suspect that the loose kerbstone had been so placed to increase business. And yet, if I had aimed at it deliberately, I would probably have needed 10 attempts to destroy one tyre never mind two.

Still, when my helper returned with his phone on Google Translate, I braced for the kill. Then he typed in the Italian for “We don’t have new tyres in this size but can give you two used ones for €40. Okay?”

I wondered if he had omitted a zero. But no, the card machine read €40 too. So hiding the relief, I accepted his deal with pretend gravity, as a severe lesson from which I would learn.

When 10 minutes later back at the car, after he had the tyres fitted and it was clear there would be no local “tax” added, I tipped him €20, he looked even more surprised and grateful than I was.

My wheels now squeaked on every corner and the car had developed a lean to the right so that I had to steer the other way to go straight. But the sun was still above the horizon. And we made it back safely, grateful for another Sicilian offer that had been impossible to refuse: full daily insurance with no excess.